


Communication

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Death Parade (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Anime Spoilers, Established Relationship, Inline with canon, M/M, Post-Anime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3981766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ginti stands there, hands spread flat against the bar and elbows locked out to brace himself, watching Decim come closer with eyes so shadowed they don’t even look gold anymore, their color lost to darkness except for flickers like sparks thrown up by a dying fire." Ginti expresses himself fluently even when he's not speaking aloud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Communication

Decim and Clavis make the elevator ride in nearly perfect silence. Decim doesn’t mind -- quiet is more his preference than otherwise -- but it’s notable for Clavis to be so still, until the only sound in the small space is the mechanical click of the buttons as Clavis depresses them. The silence makes the short ride seem long, the seconds pressing down on them both with the weight of implications, and when the elevator finally clicks out of motion Decim speaks, dropping words into the space before the doors come open.

“He’s really angry, isn’t he?”

Clavis doesn’t turn around, just reaches to press the signal for the doors to open. “You have no idea.”

Then the doors come open, and Decim steps out to where Ginti is waiting for him. 

It could be worse. The other man is behind the counter instead of prowling around the space like a caged animal, and he doesn’t shout or curse as Decim comes forward towards the bar. He just stands there, hands spread flat against the bar and elbows locked out to brace himself, watching Decim come closer with eyes so shadowed they don’t even look gold anymore, their color lost to darkness except for flickers like sparks thrown up by a dying fire.

Ginti doesn’t speak either. Decim crosses the entire space in silence, settles himself onto a barstool and folds his hands in front of him, because regardless of the situation he will always have the advantage of patience over Ginti and he knows it.

Ginti knows it too. It’s only a moment that he lets Decim wait, smouldering fury at him from the shadow of his eyes; then he shifts his weight back, rocks over his heels instead of leaning in over the bar, and reaches for the cocktail shaker. Decim doesn’t watch the motion of the other’s hands -- he doesn’t need to, it doesn’t matter -- and Ginti doesn’t look away either, pours clear liquid and splashes color into the sleek cylinder without breaking the threat of eye contact.

Decim just waits. Decim is good at waiting.

There has still been no breath of language between them when Ginti upends the shaker over the clean lines of an empty class. Communication is there -- it’s in the blend of alcohol sliding from the top of the shaker into the glass, written in Ginti’s furious eyes and the threat of his tipped-in shoulders -- but there are no words, even when Ginti sets the glass down on the counter directly in front of Decim’s folded hands. The liquid inside is stained with color, hints of orange and flame-yellow sweeping into whorls amidst the blood-red of the drink itself; Decim considers it with the eyes of a craftsman, appreciating the aesthetics of what is ultimately intended as penance for him. Then he unfolds his fingers, reaches for the stem while the glass is still clouding with chill, and when he lifts it to his lips he’s ready for whatever Ginti has for him.

It burns going down. There is nothing pleasant about the liquid, though in a lighter form the catch of cherry and spice underneath could be softened into something more amenable to the palate. But this is not intended to be pleasant, at least not for Decim, and he doesn’t complain at the way the excess of alcohol in the glass scorches his throat, aches fire in his chest like it’s pressing jealous rage into him from the inside out. If silence is his communication this is Ginti’s, empathy forced direct into the body by way of the drinks he makes, and this is important, understanding Ginti as important as understanding the fragile logic inside the heads of those Decim judges.

So he drinks. By the time the glass is empty Decim can feel the alcohol creeping through his blood, burning the inside of his nose and all the way down the back of his throat. He’s fairly sure it’s his arbiter body that is keeping him upright; even then the intoxication is spreading out into his thoughts, crackling down synapses and short-circuiting his lines of reasoning before they can jump more than a few steps.

Another clink, another glass. This one is less fire-bright, a cooler purplish tone, but Decim still eyes it for a moment before he reaches out to accept. It burns less, too, feels more like the sugar-wrapped lie of a strong cocktail masquerading as a simple drink, and he really is getting drunk, now, he can feel it in the haze invading his thoughts.

“Why didn’t you do it?” Ginti asks, and Decim realizes he hasn’t been looking at the other man. He’s been staring into the last half-inch of liquid for some time, he doesn’t know how long it’s been. When he looks up Ginti’s shoulders are relaxed, his spine straightened out of its menacing hunch, but his eyes are still bronze instead of gold, still bearing the shadow of anger not yet wholly burnt out. “Why didn’t you judge her the  _first_  time?”

Decim feels like he’s weaving, or that the world is jarring under him; he lets the glass go, reaches out to unobtrusively set his hand palm-down against the table to steady himself. It doesn’t help much. “She was interesting.”

Ginti scoffs, laughter without a trace of amusement in his throat. “ _Interesting_.” His hand touches the bottom of the half-empty glass, shoves it closer to Decim. “Drink up.”

Decim looks at Ginti’s eyes, looks down at the cloudy purple of the liquid. He lifts his hand, closes his fingers on the glass, and tips it back to finish the last of Ginti’s argument.

He doesn’t remember much of the rest of the night. It’s a haze of dizziness, blurred vision and stumbling steps until his memory shorts out into blackness sometime before he comes back up to consciousness some hours later, fallen sprawled across the floor of Ginti’s bar. But he does remember the last of the conversation, Ginti’s hand bracing against the bar and Ginti’s fingers reaching out for the back of his neck, and the inevitable press of lips to drown the last spark of Ginti’s ire against the steady cool of Decim’s mouth.

There are more ways to communicate than with words.


End file.
